


An Ode to Towels and Typewriters

by black_dipped_roses



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Writes Crime Novels, Baker!Eames, Eames Bakes the World's Greatest Pastries, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Inspired by Ruby Sparks But It's Not Sad, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Writer!Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_dipped_roses/pseuds/black_dipped_roses
Summary: Arthur is an accomplished crime & thriller author who's in a slump. Terrified he's peaked and with deadlines swiftly approaching, Arthur takes a call from his editor Dominic Cobb and incidentally changes his life forever.Or how Arthur learned that his typewriter may or may not be magic and that love is not so impossible to find.
Relationships: Ariadne/Yusuf (Inception), Arthur/Eames (Inception), Dom Cobb/Mal Cobb
Kudos: 11
Collections: Inception Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Eames & Arthur Slash Fanvid This Will Be](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/576460) by zhang jie. 



> This is a work of fictional parody in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of any individual or corporate entity. Any and all characters or celebrity personae belong to their rightful owners. Absolutely no money has or will be gained from this work. Please do not publicly link, repost, or redistribute without letting me know first. Thank you :)
> 
> I was inspired by this video: https://youtu.be/WqVTJ1ognS4  
> The basis of this video, and subsequently this fic, was inspired by the movie Ruby Sparks, however, the actual movie is a pretty sad anthology. It's a brilliant movie, and I definitely recommend it, but the main character is purposefully a pretty terrible guy when it comes down to it, and I'm not a fan of making Arthur dark like that. (It would feel too much like a crueler Tom from 500 Days of Summer if I went that route anyways) And the actual fanvid is a happy one with a happy ending, so that's what I'm going with.

"Fuck"

"Fuck"

" _Fuck_ "

Arthur sighed. This wasn't going anywhere.

His phone began to ring, the picture of Dom's typical narrow-eyed squint seemed more accusing than usual.

"Fuuuuuck," Arthur lifted his gaze to the ceiling as he answered, "Hello?"

Dom chuckled over the line, "My, aren't you grumpy."

"It's been a rough day," Arthur glared balefully at his moleskine before picking up his pen and vindictively defacing his already redacted-beyond-government-standards ideas.

Arthur Anderson is an author. Lovely alliteration notwithstanding, Arthur Anderson is an accomplished author as well. He's won an Agatha Award, an Edgar Award, a Barry Award, and received numerous accolades from the Crime Writers' Association. He's been praised by the New York Times as a visionary novelist and heralded by the Wall Street Journal for revolutionizing the mystery genre. For all intents and purposes, Arthur is successful and exemplary at what he does.

And, if he was being honest, Arthur owes most of it to his unyielding and persistently annoying nuances. He's both paranoid and methodical by nature: imaginative, yet meticulously analytical. So far it's made him an incredible crime/thriller/mystery novelist in all the ways it's made him "neurotic" and "unapproachable" in his personal life. And, where his writing is concerned, this had never really been a problem before.

However, in one particular scathing review (by a sleazy rat critic Arthur normally wouldn't give two shits about had he not been someone Arthur personally knew), Victor Nash had deemed his latest work "trite and devoid of substance". He'd gone in further to say that Arthur's "piss poor attempt at romance would leave any reader in want of a divorce". 

While there were many reasons Arthur should give absolutely zero credence to this reviewer (namely that Nash has had a personal vendetta against Arthur since college), Arthur wasn't blinded by his ego. He took pride in his work, bolstered over time by the support he'd received, but Nash wasn't the only one who'd echoed that sentiment.

A number of other critics actually agreed with Nash, if in a far less aggressive manner than Victor’s last “review”.

Essentially, the other reviewers had (politely) called the romance lacking. Arthur had to concur.

_“This novel proves that while Arthur Anderson is still the king of mystery, he’s not actually cut out for everything. Personally, I could have done without the romance.”_

_“Arthur Anderson has been my favorite author since his debut book ‘Oxner’, however I’m sad to say this is the first book of his I didn’t fall in love with. Ironically enough, it was the love story that put me off.”_

_“Arthur Anderson continues to terrify and delight readers in equal measure, but his leading male’s love interest seemed like she was thrown in at the last minute.”_

She was. Arthur hadn’t planned on giving his main character a sweetheart, but he was reading a novel on character depth and development at the time. It had recommended romance as a way of softening up rough and tumble stock characters, so Arthur had taken a chance, and it backfired spectacularly. His last book was his first serious foray into romance, whether he knew it at the time or not, and he’s determined to not let it be his last.

Herein lies the problem.

Arthur cares about the work he puts out into the world. Admittedly, he obsesses over it, and he’s not going to let his last book be the sole reflection of his skills as a writer. He spent way too much money and way too much time on his fancy college degree to waste it all on subpar writing.

So if better romance was what people wanted, Arthur was damned determined that better romance is what they would get.

***

Writing thrillers can be accomplished through extensive research and thorough planning. Writing romance is not as simple.

Apparently writing romance requires actual experience with romance, and Arthur doesn’t really fit that bill.

***

"I take it the writing's proving to be harder than you expected?" Dom probably _meant_ to sound comforting, but it only served to piss Arthur off.

"Fuck off Dom."

Dom, because he was an excellent friend who has known Arthur for far, far too long, only sighed. "Arthur, you know you don't have to do this."

"Do what, Dom? Write? Well, seeing as it's my only source of income, my life's passion and I've got a deadline swiftly approaching, I'm pretty sure it's a bit too late for that." Arthur, with soaring bitterness, scrawled a random name in his moleskine so that he could at least pretend he had started working on a character.

'Ernk' isn't a typical character name for a detective, but dammit, it's Arthur's novel and he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

Dom was silent for a moment which Arthur knew meant he had scrunched up his face and was squinting in trademark concerned-and-annoyed Dom Cobb fashion.

"Arthur . . . you don't have to add in a romantic plot-line. Your novels aren't lacking, and it's perfectly acceptable to have a hero or heroine whose story doesn't revolve around the typical romantic bromide. Hell, it's a breath of fresh air!"

"I know that," Arthur snapped, then huffed because he knew he was being ridiculous and petulant and that Dom really didn't deserve his ire. However, Dom didn't need to tell him that including a romance in his next book was unnecessary. He’d been contemplating this exact fact for about six days now. He's ruined at least fifteen pages of his moleskine with this bullshit, and he's starting to lose all semblance of control over his frustration.

He took a deep breath.

"I know that, Dom," Arthur began again, softer, "It's just - it's just that I feel like I have to."

"Arthur-"

"No," Arthur interrupted before Dom could start, "It's not that I feel like I have to because of stupid Nash . . . Okay, it's a little because of Nash, but I also just feel like I need to for myself. I get that I don't have to be - and quite frankly can't be - good at everything, but I need to at least try. Like honestly try, not just use you and Mal as inspiration and abridge your love story like a hack."

Dom drew in a breath and Arthur waited for the long-winded, most likely half nonsensical, fatherly advice.

"Okay," Dom said, then remained quiet.

"Okay?" Arthur's head tilted curiously of its own accord.

From the slight rustle on the other end Arthur could tell Dom was probably nodding, "Okay. If this is what you want, then I support you."

"Alright," Arthur said, "Thanks" he added as an afterthought.

"Of course," Dom was probably leaning back in his chair, so Arthur did the same and for a moment they simply sat in companionable silence.

Maybe he could do this. He was a seasoned writer after all, and he could always talk to Dom and Mal if he needed some inspiration. Writing a romance story really couldn't be that hard.

"So . . ." Dom trilled.

"So . . ." Arthur intoned.

Dom sighed, "What's your plan? Do you have a plot basis, characters, etc.?"

Fuck, it was obviously going to be hard.

Arthur cringed, "Not entirely."

"You've got nothing."

"I've got nothing," Arthur muttered.

And in the ensuing silence he definitely meant to stop talking, so he could only explain what he said next as being a side effect of numerous days with very sporadic sleep, way too much caffeine, and a definitely self-detrimental amount of Austen adaptations, which he was resolutely only perusing for research purposes:

"What if I've peaked?"

The companionable silence was officially ruined.

"What?"

Arthur physically flinched, "Fuck, I didn't-"

"Arthur," Dom's voice was hard as the marble countertops he sets James on when Mal isn't home to tell him not to, "You have not peaked."

"Dom-" Arthur began in a frantic attempt to save himself from an entirely too vulnerable moment.

Dom, however, continued as if Arthur hadn't said anything, "There is no such thing as 'peaking'," and here Arthur could practically hear the air quotes Dom was most certainly making.

"You can't peak." Dom said firmly, "You can give up or you can stop improving your writing or you can stop taking risks, but you can't peak. There's no limit to what you can accomplish, Arthur. And I'm not saying that as just your friend or even as your editor. I'm saying this as someone who has studied writing for many, many years now. There is no peaking, there's only willful stagnation, and you, my friend, are not a quitter."

It was surprisingly insightful wisdom from a man who once told Arthur that bears in dreams were psychological metaphors for sex. But, it was not exactly what Arthur was looking for.

"Not just in my writing, Dom," because, Arthur reasoned, in for a penny, ". . . relationship-wise?"

He pretty much instantly regretted saying anything, and took a few moments to contemplate his sanity seeing as he had literally never once bought into the expression 'in for a penny, in for a pound'. Arthur used to have dignity, now, apparently, all he had left was a pathetic inclination for revealing his innermost lonely and dismal thoughts.

This time when Dom spoke his voice was soft, "Arthur, you haven't peaked in your relationships either, and for pretty much the same reasons. You're not a quitter, and just because you haven't found the person fit to build a relationship with you, doesn't mean they aren't out there. As long as you keep searching and keep an open mind, you'll find them."

"Mal fell into my life completely unexpectedly. That's just how it happens sometimes. Or maybe not, maybe it'll be your banker and you'll foster a long and tender relationship over the handling of legal tender," Dom's voice was soothing and, for all that Arthur loved to give him grief for using his 'dad voice' in decidedly non-parental situations, Arthur couldn't help but feel comforted by it.

Although he definitely was not going to fall in love with his banker. His banker was a sixty year old Vietnamese woman who referred to him as "cuc bi quan" which he's been told roughly translates to "my piece of pessimism". Apparently it was affectionate, but Arthur's recently been making an effort to seem more lighthearted around her regardless. It was presumably not working if the fond and only slightly mocking looks she kept giving him were anything to go by. The whole experience had also made him realize that he was probably spending way too much time at the bank looking into his accounts.

Arthur chuckled politely at the terrible joke, "Sometimes I just wonder if I could have done things differently, y'know?"

Arthur picked up his pen and began to disassemble it as he spoke, "I mean, all of my exes are kind of shit, but I probably could have made it work with at least one or two of them. Maybe I should have tried harder."

His last ex was a lawyer. Orderly and capable. Arthur was certain that was why they would work, but, ultimately, the guy just bored Arthur to death. "Orderly" and "capable" aren't exactly terms of endearment, and Cedar was far too serious for Arthur to even attempt to spin fondness into their relationship. Which coming from Arthur, means an almost mountain-esque level of stoicism was Cedar's only personality trait.

"All of your exes were garbage, Arthur. If those relationships hadn't ended, I would have eventually had to just run them all off with a shotgun," Dom griped.

At this Arthur truly laughed, "Practicing for Phillipa are we?"

"Don't even get me started on the boys following her around," Dom practically growled.

Arthur, feeling a bit too raw to continue talking about his past relationships, decided to take the avenue open to him, "How are Mal and the kids?"

Arthur could almost hear Dom perk up, "They're doing great! Phillipa recently started taekwondo, and Mal and I are so proud of her, she's already got a yellow stripe! And James has-"

Dom continued on like this for quite some time, and, for the most part, Arthur listened, but his eyes wandered.

Eventually, they landed on his sole poetry book, and the words of Mary Havran echoed in his ears.

> _Lonely will not listen to the pleadings of a broken heart_

He couldn't help that little tendril of bitter longing that worked its way into his heart as he listened to his best friend wax poetic about his loving family.

Where romance was concerned, Arthur was simply lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Agatha Awards, named after Agatha Christie, are awards given out by Malice Domestic Ltd. that honor mystery and crime authors for their works. There are six different categories: Best Novel; Best First Mystery; Best Historical Novel; Best Short Story; Best Non-Fiction; Best Children's/Young Adult Mystery. Arthur received his award for "Best Novel".  
> The Barry Award is a "crime literary prize awarded annually since 1997 by the editors of Deadly Pleasures, an American quarterly publication for crime fiction readers." The prize is named after American literary critic Barry Gardner.  
> "The Edgar Allan Poe Awards are presented every year by the Mystery Writers of America, based in New York City. Named after American writer Edgar Allan Poe, a pioneer in the genre, the awards honor the best in mystery fiction, non-fiction, television, film, and theater published or produced in the previous year."  
> The Crime Writers' Association is a specialist authors’ group in the United Kingdom, most notable for its Gold Dagger award for the best crime novel of the year.  
> (Wikipedia)  
> I have absolutely no idea if any author has won all of these awards in combination or even separately, so we're operating under the assumption that Arthur has written three very successful books. The awards and accolades are spread out between them, and Arthur is just outstanding as a writer.  
> Referenced Poem:  
> Lonely is Just One Word by Mary Havran  
> https://rhymings.com/mary-havran/lonely-is-just-one-word/  
> The Vietnamese is entirely from the internet, so please correct me if it's incorrect!


	2. Chapter 2

"Arthur~"

An annoyingly familiar voice musically warbled from outside his door. Arthur set down his book.

"Yes?" Arthur responded in his most no-nonsense, monotone voice.

"Hello," Ariadne said brightly and knocked a rhythmic drum beat against his door, "Let me in!"

"Is there a reason for this house call?"

Arthur had just sat down to read the only stupid poetry book he owned in the hopes that it would inspire him to write something romantic.

> _I am not yours, not lost in you,_
> 
> _Not lost, although I long to be_
> 
> _Lost as a candle lit at noon,_
> 
> _Lost as a snowflake in the sea._

It hadn't been working, but that warm, weighted feeling of sleepiness settling in his limbs had been nice before his damn doorbell started ringing.

Ariadne huffed, "Come on Arthur, I'm your friend, let me in."

Arthur knew he was going to open the door, but that didn't mean he had to do it quickly. Besides, he had a poetry book to hide.

"I brought cupcakes"

Arthur threw the poetry book under his coffee table, not caring if it survived the rough treatment, and attempted to walk to the door in a dignified, albeit very quick, manner.

As soon as the door was open, he immediately grabbed the cupcakes and left Ariadne to figure herself out.

It was raining outside, so Ariadne reasonably hung up her wet coat, kicked off her shoes, and sat herself down beside Arthur at his kitchen bar-top counter with a huff.

"Jeez, I can really feel the love," Ariadne griped without any real heat.

After taking one soulful bite of a decadent mixed chocolate cupcake, Arthur smiled, "So, what brings you here unannounced?"

"Oh I just wanted to see you," And here Ariadne smiled back at him, but Arthur knew better than that and his smile quickly faded.

"You just wanted to see me," Arthur raised an eyebrow, "And you brought cupcakes. Out of the blue."

Now that Arthur was suspicious, he started to notice all of the many things wrong with this picture:

1\. All of the cupcakes are Arthur's favorite flavors, not Ariadne's and they're obviously not even a random arrangement judging by the very specific chocolate-strawberry mix with a lemon swirl (that he scarfed down with abandon regardless of Ariadne's secret intentions)

2\. Ariadne was still wearing her white button down/blue pencil skirt combo which meant she definitely came here immediately after getting off work

And 3. Once Arthur became aware deception was afoot, she tried very hard not to wince

He was about to point all of these things out, but Ariadne, most likely sensing a tirade coming on, deflated and sent him an apologetic look.

Arthur immediately expected the worst.

"I overheard your conversation with Dom."

That was actually worse than he expected.

"Don't," Arthur's voice was only slightly more civilized than a growl.

Arthur was not mentally prepared to deal with this conversation for a second time today. In fact, he had been hoping he wouldn't have to deal with another conversation like this for at least fifty years.

"Arthur, I love you, and you're one of my best friends, and I'm here for you," Ariadne said quickly before Arthur made a rash decision like kicked her out.

Arthur hated her slightly more for pulling out a trump card like that.

Instead of responding, Arthur just groaned and put his face in his hands, all pretense of not being melodramatic abandoned.

"Look-"

And Arthur really didn't want to hear whatever Ariadne was about to say, so he interrupted her, "I haven't been getting a lot of sleep, and I've been drinking way too much caffeine, and I probably shouldn't have watched more than one Jane Austen mini-series. Everything I said just came from frustration and some ill-timed research practices."

"Yeah, I know it did, but that doesn't mean you haven't been thinking seriously about it," Ariadne said softly, and trust Ariadne to see right to the crux of him without his permission.

The fact that she didn't even blink when he confessed to watching Jane Austen adaptations, and instead decided to directly point out his growing insecurities did not bode well for Arthur getting out of this conversation.

Arthur decided to take a tactical bite of his cupcake.

"Arthur, have you considered that maybe this whole 'write a romance plot' thing isn't really about your perceived writing capabilities, but is, in fact, about your fears concerning your love life?"

Ariadne knew Arthur well enough to know that beating around the bush would only give him more time to build up his defenses. She didn't know he watched Jane Austen films, but she could always tease him about that later.

From an objective standpoint, he admired her strategy.

From a personal standpoint, he felt mortified.

"Ari," Arthur grimaced, but he didn't continue talking. Instead, he took a moment to decide whether or not he was really going to have this conversation.

On the one hand, he's never wanted to have this conversation with anyone, and had he been a bit younger, he might have just cut and run at even the implication of pesky feelings ruining his austere grasp on life.

On the other hand, the stern eyebrow Ariadne lifted in response, while her eyes did nothing to hide the obvious concern she had for him, meant that his decision had already been made anyways.

"Alright," Arthur rubbed his hands over his face before laying them flat on the marble countertop as if he could absorb its strength into his own resolve, "Yeah. A lot of this is probably about my lack of a love life. But," and at that point Arthur made eye contact, "this is also about taking a risk and trying to better myself through my work."

Arthur was not a coward, but when Ariadne studied him seriously for a moment, Arthur felt a desperate urge to claw his words back from the space between them.

Then her lips quirked up, "That's cliché as hell."

Arthur laughed quietly as a little bit of the tension drained out of him.

"It is pretty fucking cliché,” This was neutral territory he could work with. As long as he kept the conversation about his writing, they didn't have to get into anything else, “but, as much as this has been frustrating the hell out of me, and I really haven't written a single usable thing yet, I'm kind of excited for the challenge."

Arthur hadn't realized it until right before he said it, but he was excited. He was tapping into an entirely unused part of his mind, and it was exhilarating to think about where it could go.

Ariadne gave him what he could only interpret as a proud smile before stealing a cupcake and smacking his hand away from taking it back, "Here's the plan: we're gonna get started on it tonight. I've got no plans, and you've got wine, so what better time than now to start getting those creative juices flowing!"

"I could say that it's only 6 and we're adults with jobs and mortgages not sorority sisters, but I'm certain you won't listen, so I'll grab my moleskine," Arthur stood while Ariadne twirled around to grab the wine he kept chilled in the fridge.

"Wait!," She called before he entered his study, "Don't grab your moleskine. You could use a change, and I'm certain you haven't broken in Mal's Christmas present yet so grab that."

"How do you know I haven't been using it religiously?" Arthur called back although it was more of a rhetorical question.

Ariadne's loud laugh carried down the hallway and he only spared a moment to be annoyed by how ridiculous she obviously found his question before she spoke again, "Arthur, you are nothing if not a man of consistency.”

Arthur rolled his eyes even though she couldn't see it, and hefted Mal's Christmas present into his arms.

It was a kitschy vintage typewriter from the 50's that Mal found in an old book store; allegedly there was a copy of _The Once and Future King_ on top of it, and this led her to believe that it was destined to be his Christmas gift. She included _The Once and Future King_ with it, and a quote from it was written in his Christmas card: "They made me see that the world was beautiful if you were beautiful, and that you couldn't get unless you gave. And you had to give without wanting to get." All in all, it was par for the course with thoughtful and whimsical gifts from Mal, and, although Arthur loved it, he honestly hadn't tried using it yet.

"This thing is pretty damn heavy, so you're the one who gets to put it back in my office when we're done," Arthur grunted as he detoured to place the typewriter in his living room since it was both closer and definitely a more comfortable place to be writing in.

Then his phone started ringing.

"Hey speaking of Mal, she's calling you," Ariadne passed him his phone as she sets two wine glasses down in front of them.

Arthur contemplated not answering but knew it would ultimately be pointless. Mal would just keep calling, or she'd show up on his doorstep. Probably both at the same time with angry French cursing mixed in for flair.

"Dom told you," Arthur attempted to make his non sequitur accusing, but he was pretty sure he only managed to sound grumpy and vaguely anxious.

He was really off his game today, completely missing the menacing mark.

Mal, for her part, just seemed fond and understanding, "Yes, mon cher, Dom told me."

"Awesome, I love that my private conversations are apparently not private in the slightest," Arthur might have understood that he was going to have this conversation whether he liked it or not, but that didn't mean he had to help it along.

That mindset was starting to become a worrisome trend.

"I just wanted to check on you," Mal said then hummed something, probably in response to Dom asking if Arthur was upset with him.

Arthur wasn't. It was a well-known fact that Dominic Cobb told his wife absolutely everything. He was more upset with Mal for not even trying to pretend that she didn't know. She could have at least done his dignity the common courtesy of wheedling it out of him.

"I'm alright, Ariadne is here because she also overheard Dom and I's conversation," Arthur lightly kicked Ariadne's leg, and she nearly shoved him off the couch in retaliation.

"Oh lovely! Are we having a girl's night?" Mal teased, "I would be happy to join you for a while before I need to put the children to bed."

Ariadne stole the phone from Arthur, "Bring chocolate! Arthur and I are almost out of cupcakes. Also, I've decided to help Arthur get started on his writing."

Arthur was astonished to find that there was, in fact, a cupcake in his hand already and that he had apparently been about to eat it. He was starting to think these things were enchanted or some shit.

"Of course," Mal's voice had a wry edge to it, and Arthur realized there would now be two women forcing him to confront his personal issues while writing a romance story, "I will inform Dom of my plans and be there soon."

She sounded positively smug, and Arthur just knew tonight was going to be a roller coaster.

+++

About thirty minutes later, Arthur found all of his fears to be confirmed.

Ariadne and Mal _alone_ were absolute menaces.

 _Together_ they were unstoppable forces of evil. Otherwise known as the Absolutely Eviscerate Arthur's Stoic Mask of Personal Decorum Dream Team.

"What is your type, Arthur?" Ariadne swung her legs into Arthur's lap, likely to stop him from physically running away from the conversation.

Arthur hadn't had nearly enough wine for this caliber of emotional flaying.

"Ariadne! What a magnifique way to begin!" Mal excitedly pulled the typewriter closer to Arthur, "Mon cher, you should write out your type, and that can be the basis for your character."

Ariadne squealed with joy while Arthur looked between her and Mal like they had spontaneously conjoined and suggested becoming professional jugglers.

"Yes, yes Arthur!" Ariadne released her legs' hold on him, "That's a great idea."

Arthur shook his head, "I don't see what my type has anything to do with the story I'm trying to write."

At this, Mal turned to Arthur with a pensive look, eyes twinkling under a sage glance.

He always felt jarred when Mal looked at him like this. He wasn't sure anyone, besides maybe his mother and sister, could see through him, could open him up. But sometimes, when Mal glanced at him with this old, searching look, he thought maybe she could see under him instead - down past the layers he's curated by eye and crafted by hand - and into something altogether more raw then Arthur was comfortable with.

After a moment she spoke, voice devoid of her teasing drawl, "You love what you write, so you should begin by writing what you love. It's simple, no?"

Ariadne nodded along sincerely as if Mal had been reciting scripture.

To Arthur it sounded surprisingly less enlightening than Mal's normal fanciful musings, but altogether still cliché enough to be wholly something that could only sound profound falling from her lips.

"And for you, you do not have the experience of love you need, so we must begin with what you do have," Mal patted Arthur's shoulder comfortingly then pointed sternly at the typewriter, "Begin."

Arthur shook his head again and pushed the typewriter away, "This isn't really how I go about this. I start with an idea of what I want the character to do or feel, not how they look."

"Tell us about how you would want him to act too," Ariadne smiled, taking another sip of wine, "If you can write a man that even you would fall for, then your book's set. Romance is all about inspiring victorian-esque heart palpitations.”

He would normally say it's all about wish fulfillment, but that's probably not the best mindset to go into when writing his own romance. That's how shit like Fifty Shades of Grey got written.

A man even he could fall for though . . .

That was a bit complicated.

Mal must have sensed the indecision and wariness in his slumped posture because she laid her hand on Arthur's forearm and stroked it delicately, "Let us start somewhere else."

Arthur felt relieved for approximately three seconds before Mal continued talking, "Tell us about your lovers lost, Arthur."

"Jesus. _What?_ " He started to cough, having apparently choked on his own spit.

Because, honestly, what the hell does that even _mean_. Being French doesn't mean you can get away with saying shit like that.

"Oh yes, tell us about your exes, so we know what you like and don't like in a relationship." Ariadne was up and grabbing him a glass of water before he could say anything else. Not that he'd have had anything to say anyways.

"You've both _seen_ me in relationships," Arthur sneered.

He had known both of them long enough that they knew what he was like in a relationship. They also probably had a better grasp on the kind of guys Arthur was into than he himself had because it seemed like he was always the last to figure out he was interested in someone.

Mal squeezed the arm she’d taken to stroking, as if he were a wounded animal in need of reassurance, like she wasn’t keeping him firmly in place so he couldn’t weasel away from their pointed interrogation. Her hold no longer felt comforting. "Of course, chaton, but we were not in your mind. We do not know what you gained nor what you lost."

What he's gained and lost? Sanity.

"I can't tell you how much I've learned about myself from examining my past relationships," Ariadne snorted, "Like, who knew that I prefer to date guys with fluffy hair so that I can tug on it while we-"

Arthur's hands flew up of their own volition, "Alright, alright, I'll tell you about my damn exes."

That's _not_ what he meant to say.

"Wonderful," Mal smirked while Ariadne tried to contain her mirth.

Now, the thing about Arthur, _that came as a shock to absolutely no one who has ever met him_ , was that he **compartmentalizes**.

He labels, then files, then boxes up nearly every aspect of his life.

Admittedly, it used to be a problem. Well, it still was kind of a problem, but he was getting better about it. Slowly but surely Dom and Mal and Ariadne had broken into him in ways no one else had ever been able to before, immediate family notwithstanding. And with their friendship came a personal herculean effort to open himself up for examination, mostly by himself but sometimes by them or a licensed professional. He still compartmentalizes, but he likes to think that most of it is healthy now - the kind of compartmentalization that therapy teaches you to analyze yourself with. So, in doing all of this new, healthy compartmentalization, he made a list.

It was sort of a mental inventory. One personal enough that he could never even bring himself to write it down in the privacy of his own moleskines.

It was about his exes.

Dan

Oliver

Noah

. . . Jack

And, most recently, Cedar.

He had never considered telling anyone about it.

He got the idea from his mom. She mentioned in passing some article from a magazine she read about some journalist who made a list of her exes and what she learned from them as part of her journey towards self-discovery, or something. Arthur hadn't really paid attention to that part, but the list for exes idea stuck with him. He had only broken up with his last ex a few weeks earlier.

So late that night, when he couldn't get any sleep past the lump in his throat and the burning in his eyes, he decided to make a mental list too.

He really wasn't planning on ever discussing any of it out loud though. Doing so would be like . . . admitting weakness - admitting to all of the parts of himself that drive people away and have left him lonely. He just couldn't.

But right as he was about to completely circumvent talking about his exes, and possibly the entire conversation, his mind traveled back to a night about a month and a half ago when Ariadne called him at four AM because she had just gotten dumped. He thought about the things she told him, the vulnerability seeping out of her every hitched breath as her voice faltered through her raw emotions. She trusted him. Utterly and completely, and thinking about that moment made him realize that she deserved the same in return.

And Mal, Mal for god's sake nearly physically assaulted Jack after he broke Arthur's heart, so, if he was going to tell anyone, it might as well have been them.

"I have a list," Arthur spoke after an uncomfortably long pause, "it's about all of my exes and the things I learned from those relationships."

His voice was pitched oddly, he could tell, and he knew this was a terrible idea, but the sober look of relief that Ariadne gave him - relief like she was certain he wasn't going to open up and was maybe scared that he physically couldn't - spurred him on.

"My first ex was a huge douche, and I was definitely with him for way too long. We got together in college and I didn't know what I wanted or needed, so I kind of just invested myself in the first guy who showed interest." Arthur thought back on all of the dates Daniel was late to and all of the times those dates quickly turned into sex he wasn't really interested in.

"He tried to coerce me into a threesome by, like, physically bringing another guy to my dorm, and that was the last straw. Made me realize I didn't just want a glorified fuckbuddy, that I wasn't neurotic for believing I deserved to get as much out of the relationship as I put into it. It taught me self respect."

"God what an asshole," Ariadne slammed her wineglass on the table, "Did you at least slam the door in his face?"

"Of course I did, but that was after I punched him," Arthur squinted at the ceiling, "Might have dislocated his jaw."

He _definitely_ dislocated Daniel's jaw.

"Niiiice," Ariadne held her hand up for a high five, Arthur gave her his strongest admonishing scowl in return.

Mal high-fived her, "I once had a boyfriend suggest a ménage à trois. I wonder if he still has the scars?"

Ariadne giggled and whispered " _ménage à_ _trois_ " in a terrible french accent. She might be more tipsy than Arthur initially believed.

Arthur's second relationship was with Oliver. He was from Liverpool, and Arthur had been more than a little turned on by his thick accent.

Oliver had been a nice guy, but he was a complete mess.

The Brit had gotten an internship at an online news publication shortly after they’d gotten together; he'd been accepted to it by the skin of his perfectly straight teeth and Arthur ended up routinely staying up late to reorganize his work. Eventually it spiraled into Arthur just rewriting the articles after having given up on interpreting Oliver's word vomit. This was the cause of most of their fights. Oliver felt he should be allowed to make his own mistakes, and Arthur thought it was his moral obligation to stop a train wreck given the chance. In the end, Arthur realized Oliver was right, Oliver needed to write on his own if he wanted to improve and Arthur needed to get down from his high horse. That was how most of their relationship went: Oliver would make a mess, Arthur would try to clean it up, and they'd bicker until balance was restored. Arthur was actually pretty happy.

Despite Oliver having had very little of his life together and Arthur's entire life having had revolved around having things together, they got along well. The bickering was fun most of the time, and the sex was phenomenal. Any problem that came their way they worked through.

The only problem they couldn't work through was Dom.

He despised Oliver because he thought Arthur was way out of his league, while Oliver despised Dom because Arthur was completely willing to leave Oliver at a nice restaurant in the middle of a date after a single call from Dom begging Arthur to come heal his recently broken heart with mint chocolate chip ice cream. That event may have happened more than once, and looking back on it, Arthur realized it was a dick move on his part.

Dom ended up meeting Mal about three months into Oliver and Arthur's relationship which took some of the edge off of the tension between them, but Arthur and Oliver broke up anyways eventually.

The relationship lasted four months, the breakup was mutual, and Arthur remembered most of it fondly.

"Are you thinking about Daniel?" Mal asked, he must have been quiet for too long.

"No Oliver." Arthur stated.

"Ah, he had very pretty green eyes," Mal smiled, "What did you learn from him?"

"Resourcefulness," Arthur stated succinctly, "Things were always going wrong, changing, or moving in my second relationship, and I learned pretty quickly how to overcome problems. I'm still not great at compromise, but I'm a lot better now because of that relationship."

He remembered how good he got at working with Oliver to fix things they didn't see eye to eye on. He remembered smiling even when he was supposed to be upset. Honestly, it was probably his most successful relationship, but that didn't stop them from growing apart. Sometimes he wonders if it was because he spent too much time looking over at what Mal and Dom had, wondering why it didn't look the same between Oliver and him. Maybe if he had just focused on his own relationship and tried developing it more he would have been satisfied.

Thinking of satisfaction reminded him of Noah and Arthur grimaced, "My third relationship wasn't the best decision I ever made."

Mal snorted as she rudely put her feet up on his coffee table and almost knocked over the box of Belgian chocolate she brought, "He was an egomaniac; you should have let me stab him."

"I love it when you try to stab assholes!" Ariadne was probably thinking of the time Mal almost killed her apartment tenet for calling her a bitch.

"He wasn't-" But he really was, so Arthur just sighed, acquiesced. "Okay, he was. I didn't know that when I started dating him."

Mal arched a brow.

"I really didn't," Arthur grumbles, "I thought Noah was the hot kind of narcissistic. Cocky and confident in his capabilities. I had no idea he thought he was the next fucking Thomas Edison."

"Tomas Edison?" Ariadne laughed.

Arthur secretly reveled in calling him the next Thomas Edison because it was remarkable how many times the guy went on rants about the superiority of Nikola Tesla and how Thomas Edison was a hack. Arthur agreed with him the first time they had the discussion, yet that never stopped Noah from bringing it up almost every chance he got.

"Noah loved mocking what he considered to be the _mainstream_ school of thought," Arthur scoffed, "He once called himself a bohemian nonconformist with a straight face and proceeded to explain why Johnathan Swift wasn't ' _sagacious_ ' enough for his ' _hype_ '."

Back then, Arthur had thought he was cultured and refined. Now Arthur realized that he was just a snob.

"He also thought he could speak French," Mal rolled her eyes, " _U_ _ne vrai vache espagnole._ "

"Jesus Mal," Arthur coughed down the water he had unfortunately been sipping when Mal pulled out that colorful phrase.

"So what did Noah teach you?" Ariadne asked, far too drunk to question whatever French thing Mal had said, "Besides the fact that Mal would cut a bitch for you."

A small smile tugged at Arthur's lips, "Well I already knew that. . . patience."

"Really?" Mal tilted her head curiously, her gorgeous curls fell delicately over one shoulder.

"Yeah," Arthur laughed, "You had to be patient with a guy like him. He was always talking over me and never really listened, so I got good at working around him. Patience was definitely the key."

Arthur and Mal's eyes met and the smile fell from his face. She tilted her head a little, and he nodded back.

Arthur closed his eyes for a second, "My fourth relationship was the one I thought would last."

Mal wrapped her arms around him immediately, and Ariadne, sensing the change in tone, plopped her head into his lap.

Arthur smiled tightly at Ariadne because he wasn't sure he could look at Mal. She was the one who comforted him the most when it all went to hell with Jack.

"Jack" Arthur's eyes shifted around the room as he willed his voice to stay indifferent. "He seemed so kind and witty, I was instantly attracted to him. He could really keep up with me, and that was new. For a while, he liked that I was analytical and persistent, but eventually he started to . . . resent it. Started out with calling me neurotic in a tone that had a bit too much of an edge to just be teasing and ended with him cheating on me."

He hated himself for how he had to rush out the words and that they still tasted a little bitter.

"Holy shit," Ariadne's eyes were wide as saucers, "Oh my god, what the _fuck_."

"Now him - Him I did try to stab." Mal was outright glaring at the thought of Jack.

Arthur laughed a little at the memory, "She threw a steak knife at his head."

"I hope it hit him," Ariadne nodded as if she would have done the same even though he had once seen Ariadne save a mosquito from being squashed by Dom.

Arthur smiled ruefully, "He ducked in time."

"Connard." Mal muttered.

"Jesus Arthur," Ariadne sighed.

Arthur moved a bit out of Mal's hold to grab his glass of water again. Ariadne took the opportunity to sink further into his lap and wrap her arms around his stomach.

Her face was awkwardly close to his crotch, but she was trying to be comforting and he didn't want to ruin the moment.

"Dom wasn't kidding when he said your exes were garbage," Her voice was adorably muffled by his sweater.

"Ha, nope." Arthur let out a breath.

Ariadne responded by cuddling closer to his stomach, and honestly, she was lucky he's gay because this positioning was starting to get ridiculous.

Also, his stoic reputation would never survive letting Ariadne cuddle him if anyone else found out. He needed to swear Mal to secrecy via a legally binding form signed in triplicate if he wanted to not end up as Dom's 'you won't believe this' drunk story at the next Fourth of July Party. Arthur was secretly a tiny bit tactile with the people he liked, and that was nobody's business but his own.

Finally, he let his eyes meet Mal's.

She knew so much about him now, it was astonishing. The way she knew to take his left hand so that his right could toy with the seam of his sweatpants in the only display of anxiety he would allow himself right now. How her eyes never, ever held pity, and instead held a profound empathy very few people had the gravitas for. How her lips could quirk to both commiserate and tell him he's too damn good for this bullshit.

The day that he stumbled out of the apartment he shared with Jack and ended up on her and Dom's doorstep was one of the most pathetic days of his life. She had answered the door, took one look at him and wrapped her arms around him as tight as possible while her hand stroked through his hair. It was the first time Arthur had cried since his father's funeral, and he was pretty sure that somehow she knew that because she didn't let Dom see his face, kept him tucked away in her warmth the entire time.

Seeing her throw a knife at Jack's head when he went to gather his things from his old apartment is still one of his fondest memories.

Jack ended up calling the police and the old lady across the hall who saw the commotion lied through her teeth with a smile when they asked her what happened. Arthur still sends her a Christmas card.

"Alright, last ex," Arthur's shoulders relaxed as he pretended that he wasn't absently tapping his fingers against Ariadne's shoulder, "you've met him. Honestly, he was just boring."

"Cedar was a very fitting name for a man who has the personality of a cypress," Ariadne moved to grab some of the chocolate Mal had almost knocked over earlier.

Mal brought her wineglass to her lips, sloshing a drop onto Ariadne who laughed through a "hey!", "What did you learn from him, chéri?"

"That having a giant dick does not make up for being boring enough to consider cashews a dessert," Arthur said and Ariadne nearly headbutted Arthur's dick by laughing too hard.

"I almost just broke my nose," Ariadne griped as she moved off of Arthur, but she was still laughing.

Mal stayed quiet and raised an expectant eyebrow.

"Humor," Arthur could tell Mal was about to huff, "No, I'm serious. I mean, I already understood humor, I'm not actually a robot, sorry to disappoint. But it taught me, pretty emphatically, that you have to have humor in a relationship. You have to be able to laugh at your problems and yourself or else it's not going to work."

"I think just hearing about your relationships has taught me more about love than my own have," Ariadne stole Mal's wine because she wasn't in agreement with them moving her's farther away from her in an attempt to covertly cut her off.

"Understandable," Arthur nodded, "I would never, ever call my partner 'buckaroo' while we're having sex."

" _Okay_ ," Ariadne glared while Mal choked on her, now repossessed, wine, " _One_ , it was an accident because he looked a hell of a lot like Peter Weller who played Buckaroo Banzai in The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension, and _two_ , I told you that in confidence!"

"I think that actually makes it worse," Arthur might have snorted, but he wouldn't admit to it on pain of death.

Mal was outright guffawing, and anyone who claimed she was a solely elegant woman had never truly met her.

Once her laughter quieted down she caught her breath and spoke, "Now, we may move on to the fun part."

"Making fun of Ariadne's freudian slips?"

"Non, making you write up the perfect man," Mal smirked and pulled the typewriter up to Arthur once more.

Jesus this again.

What was she expecting him to do? Lean over and start composing an ode to effervescent eyes and comely lips?

"Eyes," Ariadne was now nearly vibrating with excitement, "start with the eyes."

God, that's probably exactly what they were expecting.

What kind of eyes did he like anyways? Blue, brown, green? He honestly didn't really care about the color. Warm? Did he like warm eyes? He supposed he didn't like cold eyes, so he must have liked warm eyes right?

"Arthur?" Ariadne poked his cheek.

"Grey," _Grey?_ Who even _had_ grey eyes, why would he say that? "It would look mysterious . . . for the novel."

Having a main character with an unnatural, yet attractive eye color was way too banal.

Although, he could call them 'washed out' or something and use them to reflect the character's mental stability. That could actually be interesting.

"Okay grey eyes . . ." Ariadne prompted.

"Brown hair, messy cut, but it can be slicked to look nice."

Arthur was starting to see a character form.

"I had this idea for a baker a while back; didn't work with the novel I was writing at the time, so I cut it, but I could definitely do something with it now," Arthur was starting to type up the description forming in his mind.

"What's the shtick?" Ariadne peered over his shoulder.

Arthur smirked, "He's great at poker, and he oozes confidence."

"Classy."

"What is your setting, Arthur?" Mal was swirling her wine like an expert sommelier on a merry-go-round.

Arthur had been toying with the idea of setting this novel in the 90s, but he's leaning more towards . . .

"70's, California, and I'm thinking the baker should be a bruiser," Arthur declared, "I think I might have a plot too: mistaken identity mixed with grisly murder to the backdrop of dirty 70's politics."

"Sounds sexy," Ariadne nodded, "Where's the baker come in?"

"He's a boxer, and I think this is turning into a buddy cop novel," Arthur paused, considering, "But gay. The other character's going to be a washed up private eye."

"Fuck yeah!" Ariadne pumped her fist in the air, and Arthur realized there's a pretty good chance absolutely none of this will become his next novel, but he was having fun, so he wasn't too worried.

Mal looked approvingly at Arthur, "And where does this boxing baker come from? What do you find sexy?"

When put like that it sounded kind of silly, but Arthur was not one to be deterred.

Except by the 'what do you find sexy?' part because, yeah, that was a little-

"Uh," he says, "Well . . ."

"British," Mal waved her hand as if shooing away his embarrassment, "you couldn't resist Oliver's accent."

"Ooh, Oliver was British?" Ariadne asked excitedly, and Arthur ignored her.

"That's- That is," Arthur might have been a bit red around the ears and cheeks, "Whatever, fine, British."

"Hot," Ariadne has gotten to the hungry point of drunkenness for her, and she was devouring chocolate like her life depended on it.

Alright so, "British baker boxer."

He cringed.

Yikes, that was a bit much.

"I think the idea is good mon cher, it could be funny: the washed up PI could wryly point it out," Mal said.

He could, but he would table that thought for now.

"Okay, appearance wise he's broad shouldered. Definitely looks a bit rough around the edges-"

"He has tattoos," Mal interrupted, "You love tattoos."

Three out of five of his most serious relationships were with guys with tattoos. Dan, Noah, Jack.

"I- uh, yeah," Arthur had resigned himself to his fate, "Tattoos. Seems rough on the outside, but he's definitely got a strong moral compass. He likes helping people, and he has a wide smile with full lips."

That might be a bit more fantasy-inserting than Arthur really wanted, but nothing had to be set in stone.

"Aww," Ariadne cooed, and Arthur kindly refrained from pushing her off the sofa. He was too busy typing anyways.

"Where will the meet cute be?" Mal asked, looking up from where she was probably texting Dom.

This was a romance, but it was still a crime thriller.

He would normally go with something pertaining to whatever case the main characters were trying to solve, but the love story aspect meant he needed a bit more of a romantic touch or else he would probably just write the love story out of it entirely without realizing.

"Bookstore," Arthur was pretty sure that could be considered a nice meet cute, "They bump into each other. The baker is just getting a few books, and the PI is probably doing research."

"Alright, I believe that is your start," Mal swept to her feet then stumbled, because, contrary to popular belief, Mal was not perfect. She was also definitely drunk. "I have messaged Dominic, and he will be here soon."

The kids must have been in bed already then.

"Boooo," Ariadne pouted, "This could have been a sleepover."

Mal chuckled, "I have mes bébés to go home to, and you have a cat."

Ariadne gasped dramatically, "I can't believe I forgot Mr. Picatso!"

"I can't believe you subjected a poor, innocent cat to the name 'Mr. Picatso'"

"Shut up, Arthur," Ariadne smacked his arms a bit too hard, "My poor baby, he's all alone."

"We can give you a ride home, Ariadne," Mal smiled fondly, "You can pick up your car tomorrow."

Arthur forgot that today was Friday, tomorrow he was going to need to pick up the books he ordered.

There was a knock at the door, and Arthur opened it to let Dom in.

"You guys have fun?" Dom pulled Mal into a quick kiss.

"I was today years old when I learned that Arthur's last ex had a huge cock," Ariadne said, then patted Dom on the back when he started coughing violently.

Jesus, Arthur was _so_ getting her back tomorrow for this.

"Great," Dom's grimace said otherwise, "So we're giving you a ride home right?"

"She needs to get home to Monsieur Picatso," Mal laughed.

Arthur began politely but firmly ushering them outside before the conversation could turn back to his sex life.

"Goodbye mon petit chou," Mal hugged him and kissed his cheek.

Arthur rolled his eyes, hugged back, and gave her a kiss on the cheek in return before putting up his token protest, "Stop calling me that."

Mal smiled beatifically in response, and Ariadne threw her right arm around Arthur's shoulder in a bro hug.

She then gave him a fist bump because Ariadne was nothing if not a frat boy in the body of a beautiful and intelligent woman.

"See ya later, Arthur," Ariadne grinned as she followed Dom and Mal out to their car.

All in all, it wasn't the worst night he's ever had.

> _Oh plunge me deep in love—put out_
> 
> _My senses, leave me deaf and blind,_
> 
> _Swept by the tempest of your love,_
> 
> _A taper in a rushing wind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mal's French (all from online sources, I apologize):  
> mon cher - my dear  
> mon cheri - my dear or sweetheart  
> mon petit chou - my little creampuff or my little cabbage  
> magnifique - magnificent  
> merveilleuse - marvelous  
> Ménage à trois - an arrangement in which three people share a sexual relationship, typically a domestic situation involving a married couple and the lover of one of them.  
> "a little death" is a reference to "la petite mort" whose modern connotation is the feeling after an orgasm  
> française - french  
> une vache espagnole - "to speak French like a Spanish cow"; it's a pretty rude expression from what I could find  
> Bâtard - bastard
> 
> References:  
> I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale  
> https://poets.org/poem/i-am-not-yours  
> &  
> The Once and Future King by T. H. White


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Glimpse by Walt Whitman: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50478/a-glimpse

Arthur's eyes were running across the vast assortment of poetry books with what he hoped was a neutral expression rather than the grimace he thought might have been on his face. He decided to just bite the bullet and picked one up at random. Oh look, it was Walt Whitman. Transcendentalism was never really his thing. Nature was all fine and dandy, but Arthur was rather partial to indoor heating and plumbing so he hadn't read much of Whitman aside from what his 1302 composition professor assigned him in college. Although he always found "I, too, am not a bit tamed, I, too, am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world," to be very relatable. He opened the book to a random page and skipped until he found the start of a poem, the one he landed on was entitled _"A Glimpse"_.

> _A glimpse through an interstice caught,_

Arthur promptly dropped the book as someone bumped into him.

"Oh pardon me darling, I'm sorry."

Arthur turned towards the warm British voice and found an incredibly handsome face staring back at him. The handsome man bent down and grabbed his book, holding it out to Arthur.

Arthur didn't take it because, although the man barely hip checked him, Arthur felt unreasonably winded.

The face was slowly becoming more amused. Probably because Arthur's mouth was a little open, his eyes were caught in the man's blue-grey gaze, and he hadn't said a word since being bumped into.

Finally, Arthur remembered that the rest of the world was still turning around him and he needed to do something, so he snatched the book, perhaps a touch too aggressively, and said "thanks."

"No need to thank me, darling," The man's full lips moved around the words into a smile.

"Don't call me that," Arthur said reflexively, so used to Mal giving him ridiculously infantile pet names, he was already moving himself out of this man's orbit and back into his own personal bubble.

The man had the gall to chuckle, "Slip of the tongue."

"Sure," Arthur drawled doubtfully, his eyes spared the man a quick glare before he went back to pursing the selection of not-so-favorable literature in front of him, assuming the man would continue on with his day and leave Arthur alone.

The man, however, did not leave Arthur alone, "Whitman, hmm? Lovely."

"I'm not a fan," Arthur said sharply, taking a little pleasure in the way the man's face fell into confusion.

"You have one of his poetry books open in your hand," The man stated slowly, like perhaps Arthur hadn't noticed what author he was reading from.

"I know." Arthur stated, monotone, while turning back to look at the shelves in front of him.

As hot as this guy was, Arthur had work to do. He needed to find something he could draw inspiration from to write this stupid romance story.

"So you don't like Whitman, but you're reading his poetry book?" The man circled around him, coming to his other side and grabbing another poetry book.

He held it out to Arthur, "If you're looking for similar themes to Whitman's works that aren't Whitman, you could try this one."

Arthur knew he could turn away and walk to another isle, but he could't seem to force himself to look away from the handsome man.

He could, however, tell the guy that he didn't need his book recommendations, "Unnecessary, I'm not a fan of Whitman's 'themes' either."

"Alright, love, now you have me intrigued," The man was leaning up against the shelf with his ankles crossed, "Please tell me why you're reading a book full of Whitman's poems when you neither like Whitman nor like Whitman's concepts."

"Don't call me 'love', either," Arthur admonished with a sternly raised brow. It's possible he was being a little more austere than he normally would be, but even he wasn't sure why, "And I'm doing research."

"On Whitman?" The man tilted his head as his eyes scanned Arthur, obviously noting Arthur's three piece suit and how he looked a little old to be a student.

Arthur, despite himself, found that he was feeling a little charmed and completely unable to stomp it out with his usual cold shoulder.

"No," Arthur intoned.

The man smiled at him, his blue bomber jacket crinkling as he folded his arms in front of him and leaned into Arthur's space to whisper, "Let me guess, you're a spy and if you told me, you'd have to kill me."

Normally, if someone were to lean into his personal space Arthur would quickly move away from them, probably with a glare. But when this man leaned into his personal space, Arthur had to stop himself from swaying back towards him.

He was so thrown by his own odd responses to the man's actions that he ended up saying, "I'm a writer."

He certainly had not meant to tell this man his profession, but the absolutely beaming smile he received in response made him forget to be upset with himself.

"A writer," The man said looking thrilled with gleaming eyes, "How interesting. What are you researching then?"

Arthur could't exactly tell this man that he was doing research on _love_ because that would be absolutely mortifying.

"Well," Arthur found himself leaning in to mirror the man's position and whispered, "I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you."

Arthur had no idea what came over him to make him do something like that, but the man laughed delightedly in response and Arthur accidentally told him his name, "Arthur."

"Arthur," The man practically purred with a smile, and Arthur, once again, felt oddly winded, "Eames."

"Eames?" Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"I prefer to go by my last name," 'Eames' smiled, "I'm a baker, by the way."

"A baker?" Now both of Arthur's eyebrows were raised. It's a little silly, but the only bakers he had ever met were at least in their sixties, and he was certain this guy was 30 at the oldest.

Eames chuckled a little, "You're thinking about how the only bakers you've ever seen were geriatric aren't you?"

Arthur winced a little, "I'm sure it's an incredibly diverse field."

Arthur was not really sure what he meant by that, but it got Eames to laugh and apparently that made Arthur feel warm inside.

"Not really, the man I bought my bakery from was 84. It took me almost three weeks to convince him I wasn't some yuppy start-up owner trying to buy the land for nefarious tech monopoly purposes."

Arthur smiled a little against his will, "How did you end up convincing him?"

"I baked my world famous princess cake, and he sold me the bakery the next day," Eames grinned, "Of course it might have helped that I was willing to pay in cash."

"World famous huh?" Arthur turned to set the Whitman book back on the shelf, "I hear companies can just claim any 'world's best' title they want without it actually meaning anything."

Eames turned to pick up the book Arthur had just placed down, "Well, I have a friend from Mombasa who quite likes it."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh at that, and Eames eyes widened, mouth falling open a little. Arthur was about to ask something, he wasn't really sure what to be honest, possibly some variation of 'what's wrong?' but then Eames started laughing too.

"You know," Eames said once they both stopped laughing, "This is a rather good collection of Whitman. I really think you should give it a try."

Arthur looked at the book Eames was holding out, and decided to be contrary, "I don't know. Didn't seem very interesting."

"What poem were you reading?" Eames opened the book and turned to the table of contents.

"Before you so rudely bumped into me?" Arthur smirked, "It was called 'A Glimpse'."

Eames tsked, "Now that poem is lovely!" He said, almost affronted.

"Well, I only got to read the first line," Arthur's could feel the mischief filling his eyes.

"A glimpse through an interstice caught,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,

Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,

A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word."

Arthur said nothing, mouth a little open, then recovered his cynical persona, "Do you always walk around waiting for people to pick up a Whitman book so you can hip check them then endear them with your encyclopedic knowledge of Whitman's poetry?"

"That depends," Eames said with a grin, "Are you feeling endeared darling?"

"What if I say no?" Arthur schooled his expression into a blank, neutral face.

"Then I'd tell you no, I don't go around stalking the poetry section of book stores looking for a way to inconveniently flirt with people via poems written by Walt Whitman," Eames said, "However, you didn't tell me not to call you darling this time, so I think you're at least a little endeared."

"Don't call me darling," Arthur said immediately before making a decision, "And if I said yes?"

"Then I'd still tell you no, I didn't do any of this purposefully, but" Eames' smile turned small and warm, "I would ask for your number."

It was absolutely the worst moment for his phone to start ringing, so of course it did.

"Sorry, give me a sec," Arthur pulled his phone out of his pocket a touch too aggressively before seeing that it was Saito and sighing.

"I have to take this," Arthur gave Eames an apologetic look before walking a short distance away to answer the phone.

"Arthur," Saito said warmly the moment Arthur picked up.

"Hello Mr. Saito," Arthur responded while resolutely not stealing glances towards Eames.

"I was just wondering how your new book was coming along? Dom mentioned that he believes you've figured out a plot. Don't worry I'm not looking for a formal pitch; I'm just curious."

Saito's publishing company, _Inception_ , was one of the largest, most successful publishing companies in the world. They treated their authors well, and Arthur was lucky enough to have been picked up by them through Dom so early on in his career. Now, Arthur was considered to be their most famous writer, and he was personally friends with Saito which, admittedly, came with a lot of perks.

It also meant he could be honest about how far along he was on his new book.

"It's not as developed as I would like. I'm thinking mistaken identity murder set to a backdrop of the 70's Californian political scene. But, I'm still workshopping it," Arthur was internally debating the merits between mistaken identity and faked deaths and how he could subvert both troupes.

Saito hummed, "That does sound interesting. I've also been informed you intend to make a formal foray into the romance genre?"

Arthur's musings stopped, "Ah, yes, well, my last attempt wasn't a true concerted effort on my part, and I'd like to rectify that."

Arthur was a bit concerned that Saito might not like him branching out from his normal work.

"You know you do not have to. The critics can say what they will, your last book was good regardless of it's romantic side plot." Saito intoned.

"I do," Arthur was silent for a moment, "I want to work on growing my writing, and romance isn't something I've done before. I think it could be good for my work."

"I wish you the best of luck my friend," Saito's voice held a grin, and Arthur felt like he had said the right thing.

Saito then asked about Arthur's mother and they chatted for a few minutes before Saito received another call.

"I must go, I hope you have a pleasant rest of your day," Saito said.

"You as well." Arthur hung up, and took a moment to release the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.

When Arthur turned around, he realized Eames was gone.

He shouldn't have been so disappointed about it.

Arthur wasn't even sure what their interaction was. It usually took Arthur much longer than most people to warm up to a person, and flirting with someone he'd just met had never been something Arthur was easily capable of.

He was about to give up on the whole idea of looking for poetry books and just collect the books he'd ordered waiting for him up at the front, when he noticed the Whitman book sitting on a nearby table.

There was a receipt sticking out of it, and when Arthur pulled it out he found Eames' name and number written on the inside cover of the book.

Arthur smiled.

> _There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word._

**Author's Note:**

> I WANT TO GIVE A GIGANTIC THANK YOU TO SOUP FOR BETA-ING A GOOD PORTION OF THIS MESS AND ALWAYS BEING SO AMAZINGLY SUPPORTIVE!  
> I'D ALSO LIKE TO GIVE ANOTHER BIG THANK YOU TO MO FOR MAKING SOME ABSOLUTELY STUNNING ARTWORK FOR THIS!!!
> 
> If you see any mistakes, please feel free to correct me!  
> Comments and Kudos mean the world to me, so if you'd like to drop one, that'd be much appreciated.  
> This is going to be a long running list of all of the poems and literary works I reference:  
> \- Lonely is Just One Word by Mary Havran  
> \- I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale  
> \- The Once and Future King by T. H. White  
> \- A Glimpse by Walt Whitman


End file.
